


looks on tempests

by solfell



Series: we begin in the dark. [the maallinen-briars] [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: Only someone like Hadrean could successfully woo someone like KishoreCross-posted from tumblr.
Relationships: Hadrean/Kishore, Original Male Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s)
Series: we begin in the dark. [the maallinen-briars] [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639141





	1. Porter

**Author's Note:**

> Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
> Admit impediments. Love is not love  
> Which alters when it alteration finds,  
> Or bends with the remover to remove:  
> O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
> It is the star to every wandering bark,  
> Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
> Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
> Within his bending sickle's compass come:  
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
> If this be error and upon me proved,  
> I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
> 
> _Sonnet 116_ by William Shakespeare

Hadrean doesn’t leave the Puddlemuck until long after the midnight hour. Kerrek all but shoves him out the door, heavily suggesting he rest and take the next day for himself. Hadrean tries to object— the place is a complete mess after such a bustling, busy day. Kerrek won’t hear it. Instead, he thrusts a large jug of the Winter’s Crest brew into Hadrean’s hands and sends him on his way.

The streets are coated with a soft layer of white. Pale grey clouds hovered overhead most of the day; now, they peel away to reveal a blue-black sky, dappled in silvery stars. With the cloud cover gone, the air is sharp and cold.

Officially, Winter’s Crest is over. And yet, there’s still a festive air about the stragglers in the streets. More than one stranger smiles and waves as Hadrean passes. It’s possible they recognize him from the tavern, but it’s equally possible that they’re intoxicated and full of holiday cheer. They’d wave to anyone. He smiles and nods back, too tired to be properly suspicious.

His old colony didn’t observe Winter’s Crest, not like the people here do. It’s more than a little disorienting, being thrust from under Kannan’s thumb to… this. To freedom, as fractured as it is, and into a city’s culture and customs.

The learning curve is a bit steeper than he’s used to, but he welcomes any and all distractions. There’s still the piece of soul missing— gods only know where his pelt is— and his heart burns with grief over Epiphany. It’s going to take time to get used to the weight of losing her.

—

The manor is quiet when he steps through the front door. From the outside, a handful of upstairs windows were bright, but inside the communal areas are dim. Despite looking mostly human, Hadrean’s eyesight in the dark is much better than a human’s. The darkness doesn’t bother him. 

Moving about as quietly as possible, he slogs up to his room. Fatigue pulls at him, and he nearly trips on the package outside his door. A basket, contents obscured by a blanket wrapped overtop of it. 

He fights the urge to nudge the basket with his foot— there isn’t anyone in the house who wants to hurt him. After convincing himself that he’s safe, he brings the basket inside. 

It’s a care package of sorts. There’s the criminally soft blanket, a blank journal, loose-leaf tea, a pair of simple stoneware mugs, gloves, a hat and scarf, warm socks, lip and hand salves, a tinderbox, candles, playing cards, and a map of the city.

Two bottles of wine nestle at the bottom of the basket, with a folded square of parchment tucked between them. His name is written on the outside in a simple, steady hand. Inside, the note reads:

Hadrean,

Thank you for your assistance in Cinder. Both your words and your actions were appreciated. Please let me know if you need anything or have any questions.

Merry Winter’s Crest,

Kishore

A quietly pleased smile spreads across his face, and he immediately wraps the scarf around his neck. The cold doesn’t affect him the same way it does most, but Kishore wouldn’t know anything about that. He plops the hat on his head, and pulls it down to cover his ears. Needed or not, it brings him an animal-like comfort to bundle up against the cold.

—

The snow stopped falling hours ago, long before the Margrave’s speech. It’s not anywhere near as cold as the Frostweald, but colder than Kishore’s ever felt within Westruun’s walls.

The moons are thin crescents, echoing each other in the sky. Kishore climbs her way up onto the roof. Despite the cold and a tiredness that makes her bones ache, she feels more at peace now than she has in weeks. Months, really. 

Peaceful, yes, but her grief remains close, woven into her heartstrings. 

She has Thea’s letter in her hands. A week later, and Kishore’s only read it once. She doesn’t want these final words to live in her brain, unwittingly memorized. Gods, what she wouldn’t give to have one last, real conversation with Thea.

If she could set aside her feelings— it used to be easier to separate the disparate parts of herself. Keeping hurt cordoned off was second nature, a defensive tourniquet from shutting down completely. It’s not as simple as it was.

Instead of opening the letter and reading it again like she should, she merely exists in proximity to it. When she can, when she’s ready, Thea’s words will still be there. It goes back into her pocket. For later.

—

Once her solitude stretches from calming into lonely, and she begins to gather her thoughts. She should sleep. Just as she’s about to stand, a figure appears, rounding the side of the manor and walking the path towards Palebloom. It’s Hadrean; there’s a dark glass jug tucked into his elbow. He’s wearing the hat and scarf she left for him.

When he spots her, he quickens his step until he’s standing just beyond the eaves. He looks tired, but his expression is bright.

“Did you just get back?” Kishore wonders. Her voice is low, but loud enough to cut through the night’s quiet.

“I did.” Hadrean hoists the jug upwards, lifting it on display. “If it’s not too late, care to share a drink or two?”

Kishore’s immediate reaction is to hunker down where she is and tell him there are better drinking companions elsewhere. It’s an unkind response, toward both him and herself.

Her conversation with Cihro a few days prior is still on her mind. In response to her offhand self-depreciation, he asked, “Do you think so poorly of yourself?” His voice was harsher than she’s used to, gone rough in disbelief.

She didn’t have a real answer for him.

The more time that passes, the more she has to address subjects she didn’t, or couldn’t, address before. What is self-esteem when the cultists tried to strip her of having a self?

She’s determined to find out.

Kishore nods to Hadrean. She takes the edges of her cloak and glides to the ground. Her landing is neat and easy. She catches the tail end of a surprised, or perhaps impressed, look on Hadrean’s face.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” she wonders, gesturing for him to follow her inside.

He hesitates at the threshold before entering, but she can’t get a read on why. “Not yet,” he replies. “Ada said there’d be plenty of leftovers in the larder. Was going to scavenge after this.”

“My sister made a stew; we have some left still, if you’d like,” Kishore offers.

“As long as you don’t mind,” he hedges, still hesitant.

“I don’t. Not at all.”

She takes him into the kitchen, and touches the lantern on the table. It doesn’t light normally— not with a wick, oil, and flame— but brightens with a shred of Bahamut’s power.

His eyebrows jump a bit. “You cast spells,” he comments.

“Occasionally,” she replies. Whether or not her ki-fueled abilities qualify as magic or spellcasting is for greater minds to debate. But this— this small cantrip— is a spell in the traditional sense. She’s still getting used to using her new powers, stretching the limits of the divine spark that lives within her.

Kishore sets out a couple mugs and gestures for Hadrean to sit.

The leftover stew isn’t cold yet, but she begins to heat it up properly. Hospitality comes easy to her, easier than many things.

“Did you hear the margrave’s speech?” Hadrean asks. He uncorks the jug and carefully fills the mugs. He sets Kishore’s near her elbow and retreats back to the table.

“Yes. Ameya and I were on the city wall.”

“Only heard the first part of it before having to go back to the tavern. He’s a decent speaker, especially for being so young,” Hadrean says.

Kishore joins Hadrean and, keeping an eye on the stove, sips her drink. It’s a darker beer, rich with undercurrents of sweetness and smoke.

“This is good,” she says, mostly to herself.

He flashes a smile. “The Puddlemuck’s Winter’s Crest Special. Available only one day of the year.”

“You must’ve been busy, then.”

“It was absolute madness,” Hadrean says. “But a good sort of madness. Made the day go by quickly.”

Kishore nods, but doesn’t know how to reply. She isn’t good with small talk. Maybe Hadrean notices.

He clears his throat softly. “Wanted to say thank you for the gifts.” There’s an earnest, almost surprised, light in his eyes when his gaze meets hers. “I wasn’t expecting— It was kind of you.”

Kishore shrugs. “It’s not much. I know some of what it’s like to be a newcomer to Westruun. Small comforts go a long way.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Almost a year.”

He scuffs a hand against the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “I, uh, I asked around about you and the others.”

Kishore’s hackles threaten to rise. “The others?”

“Your family, and everyone who lives in the big house.” He cants his head to the side, motioning towards the manor.

“What did you hear?”

“Loads of things. Most of it sounded like bullshit, but the stuff you and Bryn were talking about also sounded like bullshit, so I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Folks said you’re refugees from Ravager attacks.”

Kishore takes a hefty gulp of beer. She stands to collect the stew from the stove and explains, “Tensions between the city and Ravagers were high when we first came here, so we used that as our cover.”

“I was confused when I heard that,” he admits. “In Cinder, it looked like you knew about Tiamat’s cult, and then you said Thea was your mentor.”

While he eats, Kishore wonders how to proceed. Trusting him with her past, even a fraction of it, could be dangerous. And yet, there’s that feeling of reflection, of his history mirroring hers— maybe not in replicate but adjacent. Similar.

Despite her doubts, what she does know about him is comforting. Trusting him with shared ground doesn’t frighten her like it might once have. Besides, there’s still that part of her that wishes she’d been more open from the start, especially with Caius. Maybe he wouldn’t have taken the darker path if he felt less alone.

Kishore finishes the dregs of her drink, and Hadrean pours her another. 

She tells him, “My parents were tricked into the Cult of the Prismatic Queen. I was born in cult-controlled mines in the Cliffkeeps. My siblings and daughter were born there, too.”

He mulls over that for a moment. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You were a… You worked in the mines? Like the ones in Cinder?”

Kishore nods. “Cinder’s mines are dry and hot, but the Cliffkeeps were cold and damp. The sounds of mining are the same. The tunnels are just as dark.

“They had their own arena, too, like in Cinder. There wasn’t any pageantry about it, though. Nothing about Tiamat’s justice or divine punishment. It was just a place where they sent the slaves to die when there was too many of us.”

Hadrean’s eyes flicker to her face, searching for something. He must find whatever he’s looking for. “You fought in those pits.”

“Yes. Until Thea noticed me.”

He rubs at his jaw and mouth “Gods, Cinder must’ve been hell for you.”

“It was for all of us,” Kishore states.

Hadrean smiles bitterly.

The conversation lapses. Hadrean finishes eating, Kishore fetches them both glasses of water, and they continue to make their way through the winter brew. Hadrean seems to appreciate the quiet, and Kishore is glad for the company.

After Cinder, she doesn’t know if she should be left on her own for very long. As much as she craves being alone to lick her wounds, it seems more harmful than good. Without the buffer of another person, her thoughts take dark turns. It’s like they grow feathers and fly beyond reach, blotting out the sun.

It’s only been a handful of days since… everything. She’s allowed to move slowly, to process her pain on her own terms. Honestly, the only person pushing her to recover faster is herself. Being on her own makes that worse.

Hadrean’s presence reminds her of a simple truth: The people in her life, whether they’re friends, or family, or even just erstwhile strangers, won’t begrudge her the time and support she needs.

Later, Kishore sees Hadrean to the door.

“Thanks for dinner. Give your sister my compliments,” he says.

“I will.”

“And thank you for sharing what you did.”

“I don’t enjoy talking about my past, but it’s gotten easier with time and practice.”

He quirks a half-smile and steps into the porch. “I’ll keep that in mind. For myself, I mean.”

“Goodnight, Hadrean.”

“G’night, Kishore.”


	2. Endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadrean's Past: Sparknotes Edition

Kishore sits on one of the benches that flank the Puddlemuck’s back door. Even with the door shut, there’s a low roar of voices coming from the bar. Somehow, it’s nice to hear people merely existing. Kishore doesn’t spend much time looking beyond her own circle of people; there’s value in the unknown, the unfamiliar, she reminds herself.

Hadrean hands her a flagon of ale and sits next to her. He has his own drink clasped between his hands.

“You’re not cold?” Hadrean wonders, concern etched into his forehead. “We can go back inside.”

Kishore isn’t wearing her cloak today; the sun was out earlier and she wanted to soak in as many rays as possible. She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Goliaths are accustomed to colder climates.”

He pauses and his brow furrows. Then, his expression clears. “Selkies, too.”

“I wanted to ask you something about that.”

He quirks a brow. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Thea didn’t fully explain what a selkie is, but she said you’re from the Feywild. We’ll be going there soon to find Day and Cihro’s mother. I’m offering you a place with us, if you wanted to go home.”

Hadrean’s expression splits between a grin and a grimace. “Thea’s mistaken. Selkies originate from the Feywild, yes, but I’ve never been. Don’t know anyone who has, though my sister claims our great-great granny grew up there. Who knows if that’s true. Everyone has a story like that.

“My colony is here, on this plane of existence. Least they were when I left them.”

“You said you couldn’t go back home, I assumed—” Kishore stops and shakes her head. “Your history is your own.”

Hadrean shrugs. “Only fair that I explain, after what you’ve told me about yours.”

“Fairness has nothing to do with it. I volunteered that information freely. I don’t expect anything in return.”

“Let me share for the sake of it, then? I’d like you to know.”

Kishore nods and lifts her flagon in a mock-toast.

Hadrean flashes a tired smile, then sighs and leans back against the wall behind him. He crosses his ankles; his knee bumps Kishore’s thigh before he shifts to give her more room.

He keeps his voice low. “I know I look human, but I’m not. Selkies are shapeshifters, you see; we spend most of our time in the ocean as seals. When we shed our seal skins, we take human form, but we never go anywhere without our pelts.” He says the last few words without much inflection. 

Kishore glances over to see pain lance across his face. She doesn’t understand why he’s hurting, but strangely enough, she wants to.

He clears his throat, and his voice goes back to normal. “My old colony, Ronitide Colony, is one of the more reclusive groups. Spent most of our time along the northern coast of Tal’dorei. We’d go inland sometimes to sell what we hunt and trap. They even know us in Lyrengorn. We’d visit one or twice a year.”

Kishore has a vague awareness of Lyrengorn. She can find it on a map, and assumes it’s an elven city, based on the name alone.

“One of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, Lyrengorn. Lived there for a time after leaving the colony.”

“Why did you leave?”

“How could I not? There’s so much to see inland. So many interesting people to meet. I was convinced that life could be lived like an adventure, always upwards, towards something greater.” He huffs a laugh. “What sort of greater, I didn’t know. Was willing to risk it all to find out, more fool me.”

“What happened?”

“Made the wrong friends. Didn’t know the difference between a fun person and a good person. Once I told them what I was, they didn’t even wait two weeks before stealing my pelt and selling it to the highest bidder.”

“Kannan Sarok,” Kishore says. Disgust darkens her voice.

“That’s the one.”

“He still has it, doesn’t he?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. Hasn’t used it to call me back to him, but I don’t think he will. Not until he knows it won’t outright kill me. He was always cautious when trying new ways of managing me.”

“He can do that? Use your pelt in such a way? I thought it was just the—” She gestures to the control brand on his shoulder, hidden beneath his shirt and scarf.

“The brand was extra insurance, and I don’t think it works over long distances. But my pelt—that’s part of me. A piece of my soul. He can do all sorts of things to me, as long as he has that.”

“It’s wrong for him to have that power over you.”

Hadrean shrugs helplessly. “Not much to be done.”

Kishore can’t be helpful here, not truly. She knows what it’s like to live precariously, with someone or something always at her back. Her advice won’t go far; again, their situations are similar but also very different. At least she possesses her entire soul–the Platinum Dragon notwithstanding. Hadrean doesn’t have the luxury, it seems.

Hadrean takes a deep drink from his flagon. “Anyway, as long as he has what’s mine, I can’t go back to my colony. They wouldn’t accept or acknowledge me, even if they wanted to. It’s a… deep mark of shame, to lose one’s skin. I’m only half a person in the eyes of other selkies.

“I can trust you to keep quiet about this, can’t I? Not much anyone can do to leverage it against me, not with Kannan holding all the cards. Still, it shouldn’t be widely known.”

“Of course. I understand.” 

Hadrean smiles, and though it lacks any true warmth, it’s genuine. They share a small moment of quiet, sipping their drinks. The evening sky is almost clear. A few, slow-moving clouds drift among the stars. Their breaths plume upwards, like those clouds, but then dissipate into the dim light.

Kishore observes, “There are times when I don’t feel like a real goliath, since I never grew up among a more traditional herd. It’s not the same situation, of course. I can’t get back what the cult kept from me, but I hope your pelt is returned to you someday.

“No one deserves to be caged, regardless of what that cage looks like. I’m sorry for what you’ve endured.”

Hadrean nudges her with his elbow, and when she turns to him, his smile is easier. “No need to be sorry. Without you and your friends, I’d still be in Cinder or some other godsforsaken place, with Kannan breathing down my neck. Besides, you’ve endured plenty yourself.”

“I’m trying not to weight my hurts in comparison to others’. It only gives me license to be cruel.”

Hadrean opens his mouth, but closes it and gives her a searching look. Kishore meets his gaze, and she wonders what he sees.


	3. Injured; Tea; Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Injured: An unexpected guest tumbles into Hadrean's room 
> 
> Tea: Hadrean makes sure Ameya gets home okay 
> 
> Close: Venu and Meera have some questions about Hadrean

**Injured**

The Puddlemuck doesn’t have proper lodgings. There are a couple storage rooms back beyond the bar, as well as a cramped cellar beneath the building, but nowhere for travelers to stay. Even so, one of the storage rooms serves as a bedroom, with a simple bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. The window looks eastward, and catches the first glimpses of sunlight each day.

Naturally, Hadrean has more possessions now than he did when he first wandered into Westruun. Over the last couple years, he’s slowly filled the room with things and made it properly his.

Kerrek is generous, perhaps to a fault, but Hadrean isn’t the kind of person to take advantage of the people who are kind to him. Maybe Kerrek recognized that when they first met, but if he didn’t, he’s learned it by now.

Kerrek lives closer to the Sunset District; he went home over an hour ago. Any patrons that were at the bar have long since stumbled out into the dark.

Hadrean can’t sleep. The moon is full and bright tonight. 

So, he sits at the bar with a mostly-untouched snifter of whiskey. His feet are propped up on the stool’s highest rung; he faces the front windows, elbow leaning heavily on the smooth bar top.

“Fucking moon,” he mutters under his breath, and rubs at his gritty, tired eyes. “Not even at sea, and you’re still having a go at me.”

It’s been more than a decade. He should be used to this by now, yet when the moon is full, he feels about as non-human as he can feel while still wearing a human form. If his seal-self was internal, full moon nights would draw that self to the surface, like how the waves pull away from the shore.

Before leaving, Kerrek squeezed his shoulder. He knows more about Hadrean’s problems than most.

Hadrean drops his head down onto the bar; the thunk sound is satisfying even if his forehead now hurts. He lets out a soft growl, and then there’s another thunk, but this time it’s from behind him, from the direction of his room. 

He spins in his seat, back straight, eyes alert. Ears strain to catch another sound, but there’s only silence. A cart clatters over the cobblestones outside, and Hadrean rushes across the room, vaulting over tables and chairs. He pulls a dagger from the holster on his thigh. 

His trident is inside his room–foolish, leaving it there–but he throws open the door regardless. A dagger is more than enough to fight off anyone trying to burgle the Puddlemuck. 

Ameya is sprawled on his rug, flat on her back, with the window wide open behind her.

“The hell is this?” he demands, and despite his best efforts, a sliver of panic enters his tone.

Her long limbs are askew, going on forever even if she’s nowhere near her mother’s height. Her chest heaves with labored breaths. She’s dressed all in black, which seems strange. Well, perhaps not as strange as her tumbling into his room at the wrong side of midnight.

Hadrean sheathes his dagger and crosses the room to stand over Ameya. “Are you hurt?” At first glance, she doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding.

“Is there anyone outside?” she gasps.

He goes to close the window; his eyes sweep the street and surrounding buildings. “Doesn’t look like it.” The cart is already at the end of the street, turning onto a larger thoroughfare. He pulls the drapes over the glass and lights the lantern on his desk.

Ameya hasn’t moved much, though her breathing’s evened out. 

He crouches down next to her. “Well?”

“What?” she asks, eyes a bit dazed.

“Are you injured?”

She starts to shake her head, then nods. “I messed up my wrist.”

“Let’s see it.” He holds his hand out, and she flails in his direction, somehow not hitting him in the face and hurting them both.

Gentle fingers prod at her swollen wrist, looking for breaks. He asks, “So, what brings you here?”

“Are you going to tell my mom?”

“Should I?”

“Please don’t.”

Hadrean frowns. “She’ll want to know how you sprained your wrist, and why you’re here instead of in your bed, sleeping like you should be.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Not just yet.”

Ameya lets out a gusty sigh, and throws her uninjured arm over her face. Hadrean doesn’t recall being this dramatic when he was twelve, but perhaps goliaths and selkies go about growing up differently.

“So?”

“I was picking a lock but I heard someone coming and I ran,” she blurts. “I climbed a building, because the high ground is good, but then when I tried to get back down, I fell.”

That sounds accurate to everything he knows about Ameya. She hasn’t been training with Cihro for very long, but she’s ambitious and likes to bite off more than she can chew.

“Whose lock were you picking?” Hadrean sets her arm down on the floor and goes to gather the medical supplies he keeps in the wardrobe. When he first bought them, he didn’t think they’d be used for anyone but himself. He’s been constantly proven wrong. 

“Lord Chanalet’s. The lock on the cellar door.”

The last time Hadrean saw Kishore, she mentioned that a local noble hadn’t properly compensated Rahul for a piece of commissioned jewelry. She was frustrated, and her connections in the city weren’t being of much help. Holding people in power accountable is difficult no matter the place. Hadrean’s seen it a dozen times over. He won’t say as much, but he’s angry on behalf of that whole family. Which is pretty standard, honestly.

He begins wrapping Ameya’s wrist, and waits for her to continue. She doesn’t. He’s a little off-put by that, since she’s never been shy or quiet around him before.

“This is about Rahul?”

She nods.

“Did you steal anything?”

“No, but I broke three statues in his garden.” A sly, self-satisfied smile spreads across her face. 

Hadrean huffs a laugh. “Good on you, girlie.”

The smile fades. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean to come here and bother you.”

Hadrean sits properly beside her, and finishes tying the wraps around her wrist. Once he’s done, Ameya sits up. Like all the goliaths, she towers over him, even though they’re both sitting. “You’re not a bother.” He pats her arm. “Better you’re here than hiding in some alleyway, I’d reckon.”

She nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

They don’t say much after that; Hadrean isn’t about to tell her to go home, not when she’s hurting and a little bit shaken still. His next shift doesn’t start until after midday, so he’ll walk her home in the morning. 

She falls asleep in his bed, curled into a ball, uninjured hand tucked under her chin. He sits at his desk and watches her for a moment or two, oddly warmed by the fact that she’s here. 

—

**Tea**

Kishore wakes just after sunrise, not by choice, but because someone is knocking on the front door. She rolls out of bed, hoping she’ll get there before the noise wakes anyone else.

She pulls a long-sleeved shirt over her sleep shirt and twists her hair up into a bun before she opens the door. Ameya and Hadrean are standing on her porch. Ameya’s eyes are downcast, a sheepish set to her shoulders, and Hadrean looks like he hasn’t slept.

Her eyebrow quirks upwards. “Hadrean. Ameya.” 

There’s a story here, and by the look in Hadrean’s tired eyes, she’ll hear it in full. She opens the door wider and steps back, ushering them inside.

Ameya’s wrist is bandaged, though she’s doing her best to hide it. If she were gravely injured, Hadrean would’ve said as much, so Kishore holds back her questions.

“Dining room, please,” she says.

She leaves them to get settled and goes to the kitchen to begin making tea. When she rejoins them, Ameya’s ready to face her doom, going by the blank terror in her eyes. Kishore knows her child well enough to recognize dramatics, rather than actual fear. Ameya is undoubtedly uncomfortable, but she isn’t truly afraid.

Hadrean doesn’t have Kishore’s intuition regarding Ameya; he reaches over and pats her arm, attempting reassure her through his exhaustion. Ameya’s shoulders slump and curl, and she looks at Hadrean.

“You’re fine,” he says, voice low and gravelly.

Ameya sighs and nods.

Kishore sets the tea tray down beside Hadrean and pours three cups.

Hadrean takes his with a soft, “Thank you,” and takes a shallow sip. Surprise flickers across his face, and he side-eyes Kishore. “Not many remember how I take my tea,” he says.

Kishore isn’t sure how to reply to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all. She sits at the end of the table, with Hadrean on her right and Ameya next to him. Normally, she’d sit beside her daughter, but she wants to see her face.

Ameya stares at the table, and her fingers trace the grain of the wood. “I sneaked out last night,” she blurts.

That doesn’t surprise Kishore. Ameya and common sense have an interesting relationship. She asks, “Why?”

“Wanted to break into that asshole’s house and steal the money he owes Rahul,” she says.

“Language,” Kishore warns.

“Sorry.”

Hadrean speaks mostly into his tea, voice mild. “She didn’t take anything or get caught. Bailed out before someone could see her.”

“And your wrist?”

“I sprained it. I fell. From a building?”

“It’s only a sprain, and it’s been wrapped,” Hadrean adds. “She stayed at mine last night, and no one came looking for her. She’s safe.”

Anger might be a reasonable reaction, but Kishore isn’t mad. She’s glad that Ameya is whole and mostly uninjured. She’s grateful, too, for Hadrean’s care and kindness.

“We’ll talk later,” Kishore tells Ameya. “Try to sleep, and keep your wrist elevated. Elspeth will want to look at later, I’m sure.”

Ameya nods and quickly retreats upstairs. Quiet falls over Hadrean and Kishore. The room warms as sunlight filters in through the windows. 

Hadrean passes Ameya’s untouched tea to Kishore. 

“Thank you.”

He shrugs. “You drink more tea than I do.”

“I meant for looking after her,” she clarifies.

A quicksilver smirk crosses his face. “I know.” His expression sobers. “I was surprised when she came in through the window. Thought there was a clumsy thief.”

“There was.”

He huffs a laugh. “Right, but she wasn’t looking to steal from the tavern.”

“She trusts you.” 

“Mine is safer than plenty of other places. It’s good she sought shelter instead of trying for home. Or holing up in an alleyway.”

Kishore hasn’t known Hadrean for very long, not in the grand scheme of things. She didn’t know it at the time, of course, but he arrived in Westruun just a few months after she did. 

Now, she considers him a friend, though that’s fairly new. 

Emery and Gabriel are fairly frequent patrons of the Puddlemuck, and they’ve long said both Hadrean and his employer, Kerrek, are decent people; she trusts their judgments. Hadrean has a gruff sort of charm, and a world-weary honesty that Kishore recognizes well. He doesn’t want to fight, and won’t unless he has to. She respects that. Admires it, even. 

_They_ turned her into a weapon and that’s what she’ll always be, but at least she can be that on her own terms now. Hadrean’s too fluid of a person to ever let anyone mold him completely. Change, yes, but not unrecognizably. 

“You’re welcome to stay here,” she tells him. “The guest room is open, if you’d like to rest.”

He mulls it over. “Might take you up on that. I’m not keen on going back to the city until I have to. Full moons are a right pain, even without goliaths breaking and entering.”

Kishore inclines her head. “I apologize on her behalf.”

“No need. She already beat you to it,” he says. “Besides, rather have her at mine than getting into more trouble. Let me finish my tea, and then you can show me your guest room.”

“Of course.”

-

Kishore opens the door to the room. Technically, it’s Emery’s old room, but since he moved to the city, it’s gone mostly unused. Kestrel’s stayed a handful of times, as well as a few other Stoneblades. Kishore is more at ease whenever someone stays over–it seems wrong to have the extra space and no one in it. 

“If there’s anything you need, please ask,” she tells Hadrean.

“Oh, I’m not fussy,” he replies. Just before he crosses the threshold, he pauses and looks up at Kishore. “You’re a good mother, you know.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She was fretting the whole way here. Worried that you would be upset and disappointed.”

“I’m not happy with her, no.”

“I’ve never seen you yell, not at her or anyone else,” Hadrean says. “You don’t use harsh words unless absolutely necessary. I said as much to Ameya, and she calmed down a bit.”

“She made it home safe. That’s more important to me than anything else.”

“Yet, she isn’t getting a free pass because she’s hale and whole. That’s good.” Hadrean lets out a ragged sigh and runs a hand down his face. “Sorry, talking in circles. I mean to say, she wants to make you proud. And even if her choices were poor, she’ll learn from all this. You’ll have some to do with that, with making it useful.”

“I hope so.” The conversation falls into a quiet lull. 

Hadrean’s expression is even more transparent than usual, which might be a product of his fatigue. He looks at her with open curiosity. Others have been intrigued by her before, but many had ulterior motives. Hadrean’s curiosity is innocent, honest. Should he ever ask her anything about herself, Kishore won’t mind answering.

He blinks, as if breaking out of a stupor. The tips of his ears turn pink, and he slips into the room. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

A trill of amusement goes through her; she nods. “Anytime.”

—

**Close**

“There is an extra pair of shoes by the entryway,” Venu comments. She sits across from Kishore at the small table in the kitchen. “Do we have a guest?”

Kishore looks up from her journal. “Of a sort.”

Meera’s making breakfast at the stove and pauses to glance back at her mother and sister. “I thought I heard someone at the door. It was barely dawn, so I ignored it.”

“Ameya sneaked out last night,” Kishore says. She hears the edge of irritation in her own voice. “Hadrean brought her home this morning. I offered to let him stay and get what sleep he could before his shift this afternoon.”

Meera and Venu exchange a look. Kishore is too tired to try and read into their expressions.

“What is it?” she asks, hoping for a straightforward answer. 

“Hadrean brought her back?“ Meera questions.

Kishore nods. “She stayed at his last night.”

Meera stares upwards, like she’s glaring in the direction of Ameya’s room. “I’m hearing the details later,” she states.

“Yes. I’ll have her explain at dinner,” Kishore replies.

“Hadrean seems nice,” Venu comments, and it’s with that vaguely inquisitive tone that makes Kishore want to start talking and not stop until she answers whatever questions her mother has. Venu hasn’t spent much time around Hadrean, but they’ve met a few times.

_Nice_ might be the wrong word, but Kishore rarely describes others as ‘nice.’ She does say, “He’s kind.”

Venu adds, “I’ve heard that selkies tend to be gregarious.”

Gregarious? Also not completely accurate. “More community-oriented, I believe.” Kishore can’t claim to be any sort of authority on selkie culture. She won’t push, and Hadrean only speaks about his past when it suits him.

Meera doesn’t look up from the stove, but her question is pointed. “Is he part of our community?”

“He’s a friend. He looked after Ameya when he didn’t need to, and brought her home instead of sending her off alone. Emery vouches for him, too. There are others we’ve known for shorter amounts of time, yet welcomed into our home.”

“I don’t think Meera is objecting,” Venu says. “We only want to know where he stands with you. You’re not the easiest person to get close to, sweetheart.” Her words are almost brutal, but they’re said in a fond way.

Kishore can’t argue. Perhaps she’s not as reserved as she was a few years ago, but that isn’t saying much. “I respect him, and I trust that his intentions are good.”

Meera and Venu seem satisfied with this response. They let Kishore finish her tea in peace.

-

Hadrean hates sleeping during the day, even when it’s needed. He often wakes up disoriented and feeling displaced within his own skin. Which, granted, isn’t an unfamiliar feeling since having his pelt stolen. Napping is something he used to do as a seal, never as a human.

Even so, when he wakes, he knows right away where he is and why: Kishore’s house, getting what sleep he can before returning to the city. Noontide sunlight hazes in through the drawn curtains; the room is dim and warm. Hadrean isn’t really one for having strong opinions on where he sleeps, but the bed is comfortable.

Judging by the sunlight, and his general feeling of post-nap malaise, it’s time for him to wake properly. A deep sigh escapes him; he wonders if Kishore is still around, or if she’s gone on a job. 

Maybe a month ago, she offered him a place in the Stoneblades, and he had to refuse. He likes working the bar and occasional security at the Puddlemuck. Fighting for coin doesn’t hold any sort of draw, and might actually be bad for him in the long run, mentally, and he explained as much. 

A small part of him thought, well, is it. She no longer has reasons to stick around. Always something better to do. 

He was wrong. Kishore accepted his answer and reasons with grace and understanding, and a few days later invited him out for drinks with the rest of her crew. When he accepted, no one commented about him not joining, though they likely knew, and things… didn’t change.

He’s grateful that Kishore is so unwavering.

When he opens the bedroom door, he catches faint sounds coming from the kitchen. Kishore is washing dishes at the sink. Before he can even clear his throat to announce his presence, she’s turning around.

“Hadrean,” she says in a tone that would be neutral if it weren’t for the warmth there.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Ameya’s asleep,” she explains, drying her hands on a towel. “The others are at work for the most part. My mother is gardening, I believe.”

Kishore’s mother is lovely; Hadrean doesn’t remember his own mother, but he assumes that good mothers are like Kishore and Venu.

“There’s breakfast for you,” Kishore continues. She gestures to a covered pan on the stove. “Meera made extra.”

“That was kind of her,” Hadrean says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“She likes cooking,” Kishore replies.

While eating, Kishore joins him, another cup of tea in her hands. She observes him, not in a searching or staring sort of way, but she probably sees plenty even without actively looking. Hadrean’s terrible at hiding anything and Kishore’s particularly good at perceiving. 

“Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough. Better than nothing,” he replies. “I’ve done more difficult jobs with less sleep. But thank you, for the room.”

“It’s a paltry thanks for looking after my daughter.”

Hadrean cracks a smile. “It was no trouble, promise. When I found her on the floor in my room, I feared the worst. I’m glad that she wasn’t in any real trouble.”

Kishore quirks an eyebrow, and a quicksilver expression flashes over her face. “She will be once she wakes up,” she grumbles under her breath.

Hadrean laughs, soft.

Kishore lifts her cup to take another sip of tea, but Hadrean catches the hint of a smile blooming at the corner of her mouth.


	4. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kishore and Hadrean sitting in a pub d-r-i-n-k-i-n-g

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of self harm scars

Kishore wouldn’t call herself modest or body-shy, but she is incredibly protective of who can see her, and what they can see. Having control over how much others see of her is important to her sense of physical autonomy.

She reflects on that time when Cihro visited, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows–he saw the scars on her arms, but didn’t react or say anything about them. Now it seems silly to think he would, but Kishore wonders if that’s where their friendship started. Such a small thing kindled embers of trust, and taught her that being seen is different than being _witnessed_.

-

Hadrean has magnificent, extensive tattoos. Kishore doesn’t learn this for a very long time–Hadrean, like her, guards himself. Between long sleeves and his various shawls and cloaks, his arms, shoulders, and back are almost always covered.

That is, until she goes to visit him at the Puddlemuck one summer evening. Her task is to return the plates and dishes he brought the last time he was over for dinner. Both Kishore and Meera told him that he didn’t need to bring anything, but Hadrean does as he wants. 

She’ll do him the favor of returning his possessions, and if she happens to stick around for a drink and a conversation, that’s fine.

It’s later in the evening. From the outside, she can hear a low din of conversation. When she steps fully inside, the tables nearest the door go a little quiet. Then they recognize her. Normal conversation resumes.

Kerrek’s on duty tonight, and raises a hand as Kishore approaches the bar. “Good to see you,” he says. 

Kishore nods. “You as well.”

He looks from her face to the bag in her hand. “Hadrean’s in his room.” He gestures back towards the hallway.

“Thank you.” She allows a tiny smile. 

The storage room that now serves as Hadrean’s bedroom is in the far back corner of the tavern, farthest away from the noise at the front of the house. Hadrean claims it’s the larger of the two storage rooms on the ground floor, but Kishore’s sure they’re the same size, just shaped differently.

She knocks on his door. There’s a soft sound of a chair moving across a rug, and the lock’s tumblers catch and click. Hadrean peeks into the hall, then opens the door wide once he sees Kishore.

“Kishore! Wasn’t expecting you,” he says, crooked smile on his face. He ushers her inside and closes the door behind her. 

Hadrean’s space is a fine balance between clutter and order. The only sources of light are a pair of bright lanterns, one on the desk, the other on the bedside table. There are knick-knacks on various flat surfaces, a trio of plants on the windowsill, and a slew of loose papers and half-finished macrame projects on the desk–but the bed is made, and there aren’t any clothes flung about. 

Well, except the shawl that hangs from the back of his chair. Even that is folded so it doesn’t drag on the floor.

She’s visited him at the tavern before, but hasn’t spent enough time in his room to make any solid observations. What she’s gathered so far is wildly unimportant, compared the ink on Hadrean’s skin. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, one that shows his shoulders, collarbones, and upper arms. With his hair pulled into a messy bun, even the upper part of his back is bare. From the elbows up, his skin is a cascade of colors and shapes.

Kishore is _intrigued_.

Her expression and voice remain steady. “I came to return your things,” she says, not letting the tattoos catch her off guard. 

“Oh, you didn’t need to do that,” he replies, but takes the bag and finds a place for it on the desk. “It would’ve been a while before I started missing them.”

“I don’t mind.”

Hadrean gives her a rather long-suffering look, as if she’s always testing his patience. Then, he flashes a quick smile and asks, “This a social visit, or are you needed elsewhere?”

“I have no plans.”

“Excellent. Give me a mo’ while I get some drinks,” he says, rubbing his hands together. He starts muttering about vintages and flavors while he moves towards the door.

Kishore plucks the shawl off his chair and hands it to him.

“Ah, thanks,” he says, and throws it on before he slips out of the room. “Make yourself at home.”

He’s in a good mood tonight; Kishore suspects it’s contagious.

-

They settle down on the floor, leaning back against his bed, a couple of blankets laid down for cushioning. Hadrean sets the lantern from the desk nearby on the rug. He’s brought back a basket of goods–two bottles of wine, a loaf of bread, and some dried meat and cheese. There aren’t any plates or cups, likely because he forgot, but Kishore is content to pass the wine bottle back and forth.

Hadrean eventually pulls off his shawl and tosses it onto the bed. When he sits again, he’s closer to Kishore than before, just the basket between them.

“Your family doing well?” he asks. It isn’t an idle question–ever since Ameya broke into his room, Hadrean’s taken a more personal interest in the wellbeing of her family.

“Not much has changed since your last visit,” Kishore intones, humor in her voice. It’s only been a few days. “Before I left, my mother and sister asked me to pass along their regards.”

“Which sister?”

“Meera.”

He nods. “Let them know that I say hi.”

The quiet that settles between them is calm, free of expectations. It’s one of the many things Kishore appreciates about Hadrean, how he’s just as comfortable talking as he is with silence.

-

The wine hits Kishore hard, likely because she hasn’t eaten in a few hours. Hadrean seems fine, perhaps close to being buzzed. Kishore, on the other hand, is well on her way to being drunk if she doesn’t switch to water or eat something. She hasn’t touched the basket of food, and isn’t sure if she wants to eat.

Her eyes are drawn to Hadrean’s tattoos again. 

He catches her look, and raises his eyebrows. “Kishore?” 

She reaches out, then stops herself. “May I?”

“Sure.” There’s no hesitation in his answer.

Her fingers trace over the lines of swirling blue on his arm, following the curves of inked waves. “Do you hide these intentionally?” she wonders. It seems like people with tattoos wear them like art, meant to be displayed.

He shakes his head. “They’re for me, not for anyone else,” he says. “Don’t always feel like sharing, so I keep them to myself most of the time.”

Kishore pulls her hand away, and immediately Hadrean brings her fingers back to his skin.

“I don’t mind sharing them with you,” he says, not quite looking her in the eye. Then, his gaze meets hers for a brief moment before turning away again.

Kishore is struck with a quiet sort of awe. This isn’t like their other talks, this isn’t an even, fair exposing of pasts and thoughts. Hadrean is showing her something that few others get to see, and he doesn’t expect anything in return.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, voice almost hoarse. She presses her hand to the vibrant tiger that curls over his clavicle. Her thumb rests at the hollow of his throat. His skin is _warm_.

He doesn’t move away; he looks up at her, the light catches the silver-grey of his eyes, reflecting back golden. She leans down. She wants to get a closer look at his eyes, at the way her skin contrasts with his warm tones. Her head tilts, she isn’t sure why, and Hadrean’s eyes fall shut. A breath of warm wine-scented air ghosts against her lips and–

Kishore straightens, and it feels likes she has to detach her hand from his skin but she manages it. She doesn’t move further away than that; she doesn’t want to move further away. Her heart is hammering like it does after a fight.

Hadrean blinks his eyes open. There’s a pale pink flush over his cheeks. A look of sadness or disappointment flashes over his face, but then he smiles. It’s small and honest and understanding.

What he understands, she doesn’t know. 

She clears her throat. “Thank you. For showing me.”

“Happy to,” he replies. “Glad you like them. Thinking about getting your own?”

Kishore frowns. “No.”

“Aw, why not?”

“I don’t trust strangers with needles. And–” she pauses, and continues carefully. “I’m not sure how well ink would sit on my scars.”

“You think there aren’t scars under these?” Hadrean gestures to his tattoos. “There are plenty. It’s not always easy to do, depends on the scar, but–” He makes a face, like he isn’t sure of his next words.

“But?” Kishore prompts.

“Mind if I’m frank with you?”

“Not at all.”

His gaze flickers to the horizontal marks on her upper arms, the ones she put there intentionally. “The types of scars you have there, those are actually some of the easiest ones to tattoo over,” he tells her. “At least that’s what my artist told me.”

Kishore nods. 

Hadrean lifts his hand, catches her eye, and she nods again.

His fingers trace over long-faded scars that begin above her elbow. He seems unsure when he says, “They look old.”

“They are.”

Hadrean smiles, and leans back. He holds out the wine bottle. “Drink to that, if nothing else.”

Kishore lets out a soft laugh, and drinks deep.

-

She leaves the tavern feeling dazed. Not all of it’s from the alcohol.


	5. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write abt blanket fort cuddles, okay??

There’s a shift between them after that night of drinking and conversation. It's a subtle shift, yet a solid one. Foundational, even.

Now, Hadrean smiles wide whenever he sees her; Kishore stands closer than she used to. It’s not a conscious change at first, but once Kishore notices, she finds that she doesn’t want to go back to how they were. Seeing him smile any differently would be a loss.

His friendship is important to her. Being around him feels right. 

-

Bijou suggests building a blanket fort in Ameya’s room; Ameya, having never done that, immediately latches onto the idea. She and Bijou raid the entire house, taking every blanket or sheet that isn’t on someone’s bed, and even then a few of those are stolen for the cause. 

Kishore’s on the stairs when she overhears them.

“Why does Elspeth have so many blankets? It’s not winter.” Bijou’s voice isn’t critical, just confused. It’s a wonder how she can still be confused by anything the Maallinen-Briars do. She’s been friends with Ameya for nearly four years now.

Ameya explains, “Hope sleeps on her balcony a lot, and Theren likes to climb the walls and deliver pies when he stress bakes. Kaeril and Gael say he’s trying to make them fat so he has to give things away.

“Anyway it’s fine, since we’ll put everything back when we’re done,” she says with all the confidence of a very self-assured twelve-year-old who will most certainly forget to do exactly what she claims.

Kishore tries to intervene, but ends up getting roped into helping build ‘the greatest blanket fort ever’ according to Ameya. For all Kishore knows, her daughter is completely correct, and so she doesn’t argue. 

These days, there are fewer and fewer activities that Ameya wants Kishore involved in. She’s on the cusp of adolescence, so while it isn’t surprising, it means Kishore is more than willing to be involved in whatever madcap idea Ameya conjures up. 

And, frankly, if Kishore is lucky, this will be the only reason why she earns a place in history books--for helping build the ultimate blanket fort.

The most glaring downside to the fort is that, once built, Ameya and Bijou realize that they don’t have anything to do inside it. Kishore offers a few ideas: a card or dice game, reading, or even taking a nap. 

“Mom, we’re not babies. We don’t take naps,” Ameya grumbles. 

Bijou snickers and says, “Wanna go see if there are any crayfish in the pond?”

“Yeah, okay!”

The girls tumble out the fort’s entrance flaps. 

Kishore is left sitting there; rapid footfalls go down the hall, to the stairs, and then fade into the distance. After a mental shrug, Kishore lays down on her back and snags a nearby pillow to cushion her head. 

Sun shines in from the terrace windows. Hazy shafts of light press through the thinner blankets and paint muted colors on the fort’s floor and walls. 

Whether or not this structure the best of anything, Kishore doesn't know. It’s larger than the tents she’s used in the past, but unevenly shaped and twice as likely to collapse. Only some of her architectural suggestions were taken to heart. Still, she enjoys being here. The warmth and quiet are pleasant.

Generally, she doesn’t meditate while laying down, but she’s too comfortable at the moment to push herself upright. Perhaps she’ll take her own advice and nap.

-

Her mind drifts somewhere along the borders of wakefulness. Feeling safe and grounded, her gossamer thoughts meander towards sleep. Just as she’s falling, there’s a sound in the hallway, footsteps--a familiar gait but not Ameya or Bijou’s.

“Kishore?” Hadrean’s voice is soft. “Ameya said you might still be up here.” Soft, yes, but also amused.

Kishore sighs, giving up on her nap. “In here.”

“May I join you?” He moves closer; the smile is more apparent in his tone.

“Yes.”

He pokes his head in between the entrance flaps. His eyes survey the space, and he smiles, crooked and playful. Today he has a cerulean shawl draped high over his neck and shoulders. It’s the one he wears most often, so she assumes it’s his favorite.

“A fine hideaway you’ve made yourself.” He ducks inside and carefully crawls towards Kishore, wary of touching the walls and bringing the whole thing down.

“Not much of a hideaway if Ameya is selling my secrets.” 

“She isn’t selling anything,” he objects. “I got them for free.”

“I should have a talk with her about that.”

Hadrean snorts. “Planning on treating me like the rest of the rabble, then?”

She pretends to think about it. “Hm. No.”

“Glad tidings, to be sure.”

Kishore finds another pillow and hands it to him. He sets it scant inches away and slumps down beside her. Their shoulders brush together, and a few locks of his hair coil against her pillow. His arms fold over his chest beneath his shawl, and he mirrors Kishore, legs stretched out with ankles crossed.

Her legs are much longer than his.

She senses Hadrean’s gaze, and she turns her head just enough to meet his eyes. She’s only been to the ocean once in her life, but he smells like sea air and the moss that grows on rocks along the coast. It’s really nice, to be honest, and might be one of the reasons why she likes being around him.

As she looks, his smile fades.

“What is it?” she wonders.

His focus turns to the blankets hanging above. “Was feeling a bit lonely.” He scoffs, and his tone turns mocking. “‘Lonely? But Hadrean you work in a bar! You’re with people all the time. How can you be lonely?’ one might ask.”

Kishore nudges him with her elbow. “Being surrounded by people isn’t the same as companionship.”

The unease in his expression quiets. “You understand.”

“You’re always welcome here.”

“I know. Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

Quiet settles over them. Kishore falls into a short meditation, using his steady breaths as her touchstone. She doesn't achieve much beyond relaxing the tension in her muscles; Hadrean breaks her focus by rolling over to face her. His arms wrap around his pillow and his knees all but rest on her thigh. 

“Would it bother you if I fell asleep?” he asks.

“I was about to do that before you came in.” 

He lets out a gusty sigh, and smiles, apologetic. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s alright.”

He nestles further into the pillow and the folds of his shawl. “Not really one for napping, normally.”

“The full moon was last night.”

He nods. “It often takes me two or three days to fully recover from one night of sleeplessness. Didn’t always have this problem.”

“What changed?”

“I turned twenty-five and started needing regular sleep in order to function.” 

“Ah.”

There’s a pause, and his face flickers through a handful of emotions. “Maybe with my pelt it wouldn’t be so bad. Before-- _Before_ , I was never on land during full moons.” His voice is low and tired. 

Kishore reaches over to touch his arm, just above the elbow. His expression is full of old hurts and deep gratefulness. Her thumb sweeps back and forth a few times before retreating.

He offers a feeble smile. Then, he clears his throat and says, “You keep odd hours. Couldn’t help but notice.”

“I sleep when I’m tired, and I don’t try when I’m not.”

He hums in acknowledgement. “Time moves differently underground.”

“It does.”

To someone else, the comment might seem random, but he knows her past. He understands where she’s from. It’s been years since she escaped the cult, but no matter how much time passes, she will always bear the marks of her own history. They’re similar in that way, among other things.

She looks over at him again. He’s still bundled up, eyes now closed. Somehow he makes laying on the floor look cozy. She smiles only because he doesn’t see her.

-

She comes to gradually, thoughts flickering to life. Eyes blink open. The room beyond the fort is dim--sunlight’s gone from noontide to early evening. Her arms shifted in her sleep. One is half-numb, borderline tingly, while the other holds onto fabric. Warmth encompasses the left side of her body.

The scent of heather by the ocean fills her senses. Foreign and familiar, surprising in the comfort it brings.

Somehow, Hadrean’s shawl is thrown over both of them; it’s well-worn and softer than Kishore imagined. 

Hadrean is curled into her side, face pressed near her collarbone. Her arms wrap around him, one numb and the other holding his shirt near his ribs, not pushing or pulling, just keeping solid contact.

One of his knees rests on the edge of her hip. The other stretches out, flush against her legs, toes half-tucked beneath her calf. He breathes slow and steady, face free of all concern or tension. 

Kishore feels as calm as he looks; she’s always preferred sleeping beside someone rather than alone. It’s been this way since she was a child, huddled close with her mother and Meera in the dark of their cell. Most of people in her family are similar to a certain degree. There’s comfort in touch, in being near a trusted person. 

Hadrean’s ease with physical contact and affection might be something intrinsic to him or a trait shared by all selkies. Regardless of the reason, it’s another thing they have in common. Kishore is gratified to know he feels safe enough to sleep with her close by. Even if that closeness cuts off circulation to a limb.

She flexes the muscles in the arm he’s on, trying to ease some feeling back into it. Her movements are enough to wake Hadrean, unfortunately. His eyes snap open. He inhales a sharp, quaking breath. His entire body goes rigid, like he’s readying himself for a fight.

On an impulse, Kishore runs her palm over his head, fingers threading through loose strands of hair. “You’re alright,” she murmurs.

There’s a moment that she thinks she’s made mistake, but then he goes lax and buries his face further into her shoulder. 

“Apologies.” His voice is sleep-roughened and muted by fabric.

Kishore shifts her pinned arm a little more freely now. Her hand stays in his hair. “Why are you apologizing?”

He heaves a great sigh. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“Does it seem like I mind?”

His expression is skeptical when he looks up at her. “Could be humoring me.”

“I don’t have a sense of humor.”

He laughs at that and pushes himself into a sitting position, cross-legged at her side. His posture is loose and mellow, and an edge of mirth softens his features. He opens his mouth to speak, but then reconsiders. Kishore waits for him to collect his thoughts.

After a pause, he says, “This shade of blue looks good on you.” Fingers pinch at the shawl that’s draped between them.

Kishore props herself up on her elbows. “Meera would likely agree with you.”

“She has a good eye for these things.”

“I prefer darker colors.”

Hadrean smiles, and his eyebrows jump in amusement. “Oh, is that so? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Kishore rolls her eyes, and his grin widens. 

“Will you stay for dinner?” she asks. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever said no to a free meal and good company. I’m not about to start now.”

-

After dinner, half the family heads off in different directions, while the other half cleans up. Venu puts a hand between Hadrean’s shoulderblades and ushers him onto the veranda. Normally, he might resist, but Venu’s intent isn’t to control or herd him, so he follows.

Out on the front lawn, lit by the final dregs of daylight, Cihro and Kishore teach Ameya the correct way to hold various weapons. Kishore lets Cihro do most of the talking, but casts a critical eye over her daughter, correcting her form where needed. All three of them have some sort of braid in their hair; Kishore’s influence extends in unexpected ways.

Venu sits on one of the benches that line the veranda. “Sit with me?”

Hadrean takes the spot beside her.

“You’ve become our most common visitor recently,” she observes.

“Is that a problem?” he asks, concerned.

She shakes her head. “Not at all. Our herd has more friends than we used to, but we would never turn a good person away.”

“Don’t know if I’m that.”

Venu laughs softly, and Hadrean almost feels as if she’s laughing at him, but she isn’t a mean-spirited person. 

“I suspect it’s already been decided,” she says. “Good or not, you’re here.”

Hadrean likes Venu. He respects her, and values what she’s contributed to her family. Kishore says her mother is the strongest person she knows, and Hadrean believes it. So, yes, he thinks well of her, but sometimes he isn’t sure where their conversations are going. Much like the hand on his back earlier, her words leads him with a gentle touch. 

Stranger still, he allows it. If she’s looking for a specific answer, she’ll have it, and if she only wants a conversational companion, Hadrean is happy to fill that role. 

He studies her face--the malachite-esque markings on her grey skin, the creases born from time and hardship, the translucent quality of her pale blue eyes. She turns from watching Ameya to meet Hadrean’s gaze. According to Kishore, she looks much more like her father than her mother, but she looks plenty like her mother. 

Venu smiles, fond. “Some of the most important people to Kishore are the ones who fell into her life by pure happenstance. She doesn’t go looking for anyone, because she’s never wanted or needed to. 

“And yet,” she says, and nods her head towards the trio in the yard, “Kishore somehow manages to find people who are worthwhile. There are some interesting stories about the first few times Hope visited; Meera had reservations.”

Hadrean quirks an eyebrow. “She gripes about him plenty.”

“She gripes about everyone,” Venu points out. “It shows that she cares.”

“I can see that, sure.”

They lapse into silence. Ameya says something that makes Cihro laugh; she even manages to get a smile out of Kishore. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Never had many people,” Hadrean says. “There was the colony, and we were a close-knit community, but family was just my sister and me. Parents died when I was a just a pup. Seeing a family like yours is educational. It’s a truly lovely thing you have.”

“Is it something you want as well?”

He shrugs and looks away. “Oh, I don’t know. Can’t really see myself settling down anywhere.”

“I didn’t mean in general. I meant _here_.”

There’s a pang in Hadrean’s heart, a sense of joy that he tears in half before it can fully form. He’s been here once before, at the edge of being something more. It was the wrong edge with the wrong people, and he lost part of his soul in the process. 

Kishore and her family are not like the false friends he first made on land. He’s older and wiser now, or so he hopes. He can’t imagine any of the people here using him for their own gain.

His unease bleeds into his voice. “What are you asking me?”

Venu exhales slow and leans back against the wall behind them. Hands fold loosely in her lap; her eyes are sharp and searching when they meet his. “If you don’t want to be here as anything more than a casual friend, now is the time to leave.”

“Are you warning me away?”

“Only if you expect to be a momentary presence in our lives.”

The dashed joy inside him ebbs and flows with his thoughts. Despite Kishore’s statement that he’s welcome in her home, despite the peace he feels around her and the people who live here, despite everything he’s come to know about this strange, conglomerate family--despite it all, there’s doubt. A burned hand fears the fire, no matter how large or small the flame. 

Does he belong? Where could a landlocked selkie possibly find a place to rest? 

The answers are easy. He thinks of sitting with Kishore on the rug in his room, sharing a bottle of wine, and he thinks of walking Ameya home at dawn, trying his best to reassure her, and he thinks about waking up in the blanket fort, fearful until a word and a touch calmed him.

Hadrean is decent actor when it’s needed. He can fake his way through interactions, pleasant and congenial, self-effacing in a conciliatory way. It’s come in handy when dealing with bar patrons. He’s dishonest sometimes, just to keep the peace, but he doesn’t outright lie. Not to himself and not to the ones who matter. 

Venu doesn’t push him for an answer.

“I want to stay,” he admits. “I don’t aim to be temporary or flighty. Doubt I’ll hear anything about my pelt anytime soon, and I’m tired of always fighting to stay between one point and the next. I want to have people in my life again.”

She rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes once, light and quick. There’s a proud look on her face. “Then I’m glad I’ll be seeing more of you from now on.”

A hesitant, hopeful warmth begins to swell in his chest, gathering strength like the tides.


	6. Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation about the past and people they could've loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 2june2020 for accuracy

“Vakan never lied to me,” Kishore says. “When we first met, he promised that he would never hurt me, and he never did. Despite all my expectations, he was kind. Of course, he belonged to Tiamat, but somehow that didn’t corrupt him completely.”

“Still had more power, agency, over you,” Hadrean states. There’s a dissatisfied, scowling tilt to his mouth. “He’s your child’s father. His kindness shouldn’t defy expectations. You’ve told me too much about the cult for me to trust anything he said or did.”

Kishore takes a moment to absorb his words. “You’re angry. Why?”

“Why aren’t you?”

“There are other, greater things for me to be mad about.”

Hadrean leans back and folds his arms over his chest. “If any of those bastards actually cared about you or anyone but themselves, they would’ve helped you escape. Like Thea did.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing right rarely is.” 

Kishore isn’t willing to argue the point--she’s no authority on what is and isn’t right. She can’t be. “It’s done. I have no quarrel with Vakan, not while the leaders of the cult continue to enslave, kill, and conquer.”

Hadrean allows this concession, though he isn’t happy about it, going by the small snarl of annoyance at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t speak again for a long moment. 

“Were you at all in love with him?” Hadrean asks, head tilted in curiosity.

“No. He was an ally, if anything,” she replies. “We might have been friends if the world were a different place.”

Hadrean hums in acknowledgement. “Was there anyone else? Anyone who mattered? Close to your heart, I mean.” The last few words are said softly, almost like he hesitates to ask.

“No,” Kishore says, but that isn’t the whole truth. So, she sighs. “There might have been someone. When our paths crossed, it wasn’t for long and I wasn’t in a place where I could see him as anything more than family.”

He inclines his head. “Family is important.”

“Yes, and it’s the best word for how I felt towards him,” she says. “He died before I could find out if there was more.”

Hadrean scoots closer, and loops an arm through hers. She feels his head rest against her shoulder. Somehow, she’s comforted by even that simplest of touch.

“And you?” she asks.

She feels more than sees him shrug. “Dated a few people here and there when I first left the sea. Nothing lasting, of course. Wasn’t interested in serious, and my partners were like-minded.”

“Is that common for selkies?”

“Depends on the colony. Mine? Casual relationships weren’t frowned upon but they weren’t by any means usual. You see, when I left, I went with the purpose of living differently than anyone from home.”

“You achieved that,” Kishore points out.

Hadrean scoffs. “Sure, but at a steep cost.”

“You will find your pelt. It won’t undo the hurts you’ve endured, but you’re still alive. As long as that’s true, you keep moving forward.”

He looks up at her. “Speaking from experience?”

“To a degree.”

Hadrean lets her words sit for a moment. Then, he says slowly, “I did have someone similar to your maybe. Had them nearly. A fellow gladiator. We were often paired together in fights.”

“Against one another?”

“Against others, people or animals.”

“You worked well together.”

“We did.”

She keeps her voice soft. “What happened?”

He turns just enough that his knee rests against her thigh. “He died.” Hadrean clears his throat. “Not all bouts were to the death. Most weren’t, but this one was.”

“Were you with him?”

He shakes his head. “I was told later, the next day, but I had a feeling when I didn’t see him after his fight. Terrible thing, having a feeling like that confirmed.”

“It is,” Kishore says. “What was his name?”

“Quinn. What was yours named?”

“Thane. I called him Storm.”

Hadrean nods.

Kishore waits before speaking again. Loss never actually stops hurting. It hurts less over time. Or maybe she’s become stronger--strong enough that loss is easier to carry. She doesn’t need to explain that, though, because Hadrean surely knows it already. 

Instead, she says, “I’m glad you had him for as long as you did.”

He lets out a sigh, and closes his eyes a moment. Then, he offers a bittersweet smile. “Me, too.”


	7. Balcony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are all my characters so intense about their friendships?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've reread this a dozen times, not completely happy with the direction it took? feels contrived or something idk

There’s a faint sound of footsteps nearby, like someone’s moving quietly but without any real intention to hide. Kishore peers over the edge of her balcony to see Hadrean rounding the corner of the house. He lifts a hand in greeting and jogs the last few yards towards her. 

“Hadrean,” she says.

The waxing moon and lantern light on his upturned face make him look paler than usual; his skin darkens in the summertime, and the sun was scarce this winter. Though the snow is long gone, his paleness proves that spring hasn’t quite given way to summer.

“Hey, you,” he replies.

“Do you need something?” Kishore isn’t sure why he’s here and not coming in through the front door. He doesn’t have a key–not yet–but Elspeth and Rahul were in the drawing room when Kishore headed upstairs. They should still be there, tied up in their respective projects.

Hadrean shrugs. “No. Out on a walk. It’s a nice night.”

“It is.”

“What are you up to?” He puts emphasis on ‘up’ and gestures at the distance separating them.

Kishore’s eyebrow quirks, the only sign of her amusement. “I was reading.”

He makes a slight face–he and Ameya are of similar minds when it comes to books. If it isn’t exciting and fictional, they can’t be bothered. Ameya occasionally reads academic books, but tends to skip around, looking for the interesting parts. Like Elspeth, she has a wide breadth of knowledge, but isn’t an expert in any category.

Hadrean has even less patience than Ameya when it comes to academia. 

“It’s a good book.” Subjectively, of course. Kishore likes history–always has.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he replies, not at all convinced. His eyes seem to measure the distance between the ground and the balcony, like a cat gauging the space before a jump. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

He steps back a few paces, gets a running start, and leaps up to catch the bottom edge of the balcony. Kishore leans over the railing, arm extended. Hadrean swings himself up, catching her hand. Using their combined strength, it’s easy enough to pull him onto the balcony proper.

She has her hands on his shoulders, as if to steady him, but he’s not even out of breath. She folds her arms across her middle, hands cupping her elbows, and leans her hip against the railing. “You could’ve come in through the front door.”

Hadrean grins and smooths his hair and shawl back into place. “More fun this way.”

Kishore’s mouth twitches into a smile. She takes a step towards the glass doors leading back inside. “Do you want anything? There should still be leftovers from dinner,” she offers.

He waves a dismissive hand and sits on the lone wicker settee. Compared to some of the other balconies, hers is sparse. The single settee and end table are enough.

“No need. Had dinner after my shift.” He picks up the book that Kishore was reading and flips through a few of the pages. He frowns. “This is in giant?” His head tilts to the side, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Kishore sits cross-legged beside him, partially turned to accommodate her limbs, but also to better see his face. The lantern hanging from the eaves gives off enough light that Kishore doesn’t need her darkvision glasses. 

“It is. I’m trying to find anything that could verify the fables written on my quarterstaff.”

“Ah.” He gives the book back. “Any success?”

Kishore turns the book over in her hands, fingers tracing the texture of the embossed leather cover, the ridges on the spine, the ragged edges of paper. “Not yet, but I’m learning as I go. Even if I don’t find anything, it won’t be completely fruitless.”

“Can’t imagine there are many books written in giant, at least in this part of the world.”

“Not many, no.”

He takes in her expression. “I’d like to hear more about your people. Not now, but at some point.”

Kishore nods. “I’m working on transcribing the stories into common. They’re written in an older dialect of giant, so I’m decoding as well as translating. My mother has been helpful, and the monks at the Cobalt Soul seem interested in finding resources for me.”

“The finished product will be something to behold.”

“It might be years before I have anything worth binding.”

Hadrean hums in agreement. “I can be patient.”

It’s a statement that catches Kishore off-guard; she pauses. Her hearing is good, but she wonders if she heard him right. Will he still be here years from now? Looking too far into the future makes Kishore feel acutely myopic–she can’t see that far ahead, not when she’s lived most of her life just one day to the next.

Kishore isn’t willing to address it now. The open ended questions circling her mind are shunted to the side, to be looked at later.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“I was going to offering tea, or ask why you came all the way here. Should I be concerned?”

“Oh, probably. Not over me, though. You have plenty of other people to worry over.” He flashes a cheeky half-grin. “Don’t really need excuses to come see you, do I? Not anymore.”

Kishore shakes her head. “Of course not. I enjoy your company.”

He seems pleased by that. “Whenever I feel restless or wrong, or my mind is too loud, I want to come here. Been that way for some time now.”

She blinks. “For how long?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Telling of what?”

His face turns upwards, soaking in moonlight as if it gave off warmth. Kishore looks at him while his focus is on the sky. She studies his profile, the slope of his nose, the stray moles that dot his face, the almost curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the small, near-invisible scar on the underside of his chin–he surely knows that she’s staring, but allows it.

He says, “I don’t want to scare you off by being honest.”

“Why would your honesty scare me? It never has before.”

A quick glance at her, and then he laughs, abashed. “You’re right. Couldn’t say anything that would truly frighten you.”

“I’m not fearless.”

“I know. You’re brave, though.”

Kishore shakes her head. “What I’ve done isn’t a matter of bravery. It’s a matter of survival.”

“Take the compliment, would you?” he chides.

“You don’t need to compliment me.”

“If I needed to, I wouldn’t.” He folds his arms over his chest and slumps against the back of the settee. “You are my closest friend. Besides Epiphany, and maybe Quinn, I haven’t had many friendships in the last few years.”

“With good reason,” Kishore adds.

He gives a half-hearted shrug, and then meets her gaze. “You’re not easy to know–”

She scoffs. “My mother would agree.”

“–but knowing you is worth the effort.”

Kishore sets her book on the floor. When she turns back to Hadrean, a pinkish shade colors his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Before Kishore can respond or react, Hadrean presses on. “I’m trying to say that you’re important to me. Your friendship is valuable. To me.”

Kishore reaches out and hooks their arms together. She half expects him to keep his arms folded over his chest, mulish, but he shifts willingly. His thumb absentmindedly brushes back and forth over a scar on her arm. She doesn’t recoil like she would if he were most other people.

She takes a deep breath, and chooses her next words carefully. “I wouldn’t know myself the same way if I didn’t know you. I am more myself because of you.”

He’s quiet. A moment passes, and he drops his head onto her shoulder. His arm tightens around hers. Kishore presses her temple to the crown of his head, and just breathes. Being comfortable is not a particular skill of hers, but it comes naturally when she’s with friends–Hadrean in particular.

“I had another house key made. I wasn’t sure when to give it to you,” Kishore breaks the hush.

He sits up straight and give her a confused, startled, unsure look. “Do you really?”

“It’s on my desk.” She nods back towards her bedroom.

The startled look doesn’t fade. He swallows, and clears his throat. “Didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

“Neither of us take friendship lightly. Is it really so strange that you’re just as important to me as I am to you?”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Now, when you put it like that–” His eyes shine bright.

Kishore can’t quite fight off a soft smile. “I’m glad I know you, Hadrean.”

“I couldn’t rightfully call myself lucky, but sometimes I wonder.” He rests his head back on her shoulder. “You don’t care either way, but I reckon the Wildmother intended for us to meet.”

“Perhaps.” 

And despite her disinterest towards deities in general, the idea that she and Hadrean were meant to be friends fills her with warmth. If the Wildmother has a hand in Kishore’s fate, and Hadrean is the result, she can’t feel anything except gratitude. 


	8. Pelt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She returns the pelt to its rightful owner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one takes place in some ill-defined future setting where kishore’s helping hadrean find his pelt, i don’t know any of the context or background there, but i wrote this anywayyy
> 
> basically, they battle through lots of baddies and then kishore kills the guy who has hadrean’s pelt and that’s that on that

The pelt is cold to the touch, devoid of all vitality. Hadrean once described his pelt as a physical manifestation of a part of his soul. Kishore’s hands are gentle, but she doesn’t know if they’re gentle enough. Holding someone’s soul shouldn’t be this heartrending. The pelt is smeared with streaks of blood, and the patches of missing fur are thick with scarred tissue. Between the chill and the litany of hurts, Kishore wonders if this mote of soul is still capable of life. **  
**

She frees the pelt from the lifeless hands of Hadrean’s would-be captor, and hugs it to her chest. It may not work, but maybe if she holds it close enough, she’ll be able to transfer some warmth back into it.

Hadrean gets to his feet, using the doorjamb to help. His hair is loose. It falls like a dark curtain around his face. He spits blood onto the floor and then looks at Kishore, and the pelt cradled in her arms. Pain lances across his face, followed by a sharp, fathomless longing.

If–when–Kishore returns what is his, he’ll go back home. His actual home. And she’ll never see him again. Why should she? He has family still in the ocean, an entire colony that misses him. How many years has he been land-bound? Nearly ten, if she remembers correctly. 

It’s a small price to pay for his happiness, isn’t it? So, he’ll leave and be gone; her future grief is nothing compared to his freedom right now. His life is worth so much more than her feelings.

Kishore crosses the room and drapes the pelt over his shoulders. She takes the time to shift his hair out of the way, so it lays on the pelt instead of beneath it. Hadrean’s hands grasp at the edges of his second skin, knuckles going white, and his eyes don’t leave her face.

Kishore cups his jaw in her hands; her thumbs fit neatly into the hollows of his cheeks. She smiles, an honest but brittle thing. “Go home,” she says, soft. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, and withdraws from her touch.

She doesn’t follow him out of the building. Instead, she stands still for as long as it takes to gather herself. She’s lost friends before, of course she has, but this is another kind of loss. Death and distance take in different ways, but they always leave her bereft.


	9. Nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's still Hadrean, even as a seal

Hadrean launches himself out of the water and onto the shore. He nearly barrels Kishore over, but she’s sturdy, even in the face of a fully-grown seal. She leans back on her elbows, and lets Hadrean shimmy his way on top of her. He settles once they’re almost nose-to-nose. His flippers flail a bit, happily patting her sides; his eyes are the same shade of bright grey as they are when he’s human.

A grin pulls at the corner of her mouth, and she lightly bumps her nose against his. For a second his head rears back, like he’s surprised at her, and then he sticks his nose right against the spot where her jawline meets her ear. His whiskers are ticklish and damp.

“Hadrean,” she half-chides him, trying to get away from the strange sensation.

He breathes a warm, deliberate puff of air against her skin and then rolls sideways, off of her. He rolls for a few more feet, then twists upright and makes his way back to the water.


End file.
